


Sparks Fly Upward

by VizardMask



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:39:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1913076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VizardMask/pseuds/VizardMask
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I play the violin, sometimes I don’t for talk for days. Oh, and occasionally I spontaneously combust.”</p><p>Sherlock has an inconvenient habit of bursting into flames. Fortunately, John has a theory to explain it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I play the violin, sometimes I don’t for talk for days. Oh, and occasionally I spontaneously combust.”

“What?”

“Prospective flatmates should know the worst about each other.” The man says, raising his eyebrows as if nothing he’d just said was the slightest bit unusual. John’s brain stalls struggling to catch up. 

“I’ve got my eye on a little place in central London. Between the two of us we should be able to afford it.”

“So.. that’s it then?” John says. “We’ve only just met each other, we don’t even know each other’s names and we’re going to look at a flat…?”

The man smiles, and rattles off an unnervingly accurate assessment of John’s career history, health problems and psychological status. John is just pausing to draw breath when the man swoops away from them, pulling on a long black coat as he goes. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.” He winks and sweeps out of the door, a whirl of coat.

John looks at Mike, who is looking at him with a peculiarly understanding smile on his face.

“Sorry,” said John. “Did he say _spontaneously combust_?”

Mike grins. “You don’t know the half of it, mate.”

 

 

The first time John sees it happen is in the restaurant, after the whole business with the cabbie and Roland-Kerr educational college. They are waiting for their order to arrive, both still buzzing slightly with adrenaline. John still has the smell of powder on his fingers, the ringing of the shot in his ears. Sherlock is leaning back in his chair, pale eyes glowing as he recounts his conversation with the cab driver. Actually all of him is glowing, John realises, a peculiar pale light shimmering over his skin. Sherlock gesticulates and suddenly there are flames, blue-white leaping over his palm.

“Jesus,” John says. 

Sherlock follows his gaze and frowns. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

John takes his word for it but he can’t help twitching as the flames spread, fanning up his arms, and billowing around his chest. The flames deepen to a violet colour, veined with blue as they lick around Sherlock’s pale neck. It is, John thinks, rather beautiful. Without planning to do it he finds himself lifting a hand, reaching across the table to touch.

“Don’t,” Sherlock says sharply and John drops the hand.

At that point their food arrives, a rustle of waiters moving between them and blocking Sherlock from view. By the time the last of the dishes has been set down the fire has gone out and Sherlock is spooning rice onto his plate, as if nothing had happened. John has about a dozen questions but judging from the sudden tension in his flatmate’s shoulders they wouldn’t be welcome. John decides to shrug them off and instead asks a question about the case instead. Sherlock glances up at him for a brief second and then relaxes visibly.

They pass the evening pleasantly, talking about murder and Moriarty and by the time they get outside again, into the sharp frost of the London night John has almost forgotten the fire. After all, John thinks dimly as he climbs into his new bed for the first time, it isn’t like bursting into flames is the oddest thing about his new flatmate.

 

It doesn’t happen often. Sometimes when Sherlock is deeply absorbed with working on a case John will notice a brief ripple of light running over Sherlock’s body, like a gas fire on so low you can hardly see the flame. It rarely lasts for longer than a few seconds – blink and you miss it really. 

Once they have an argument about John ditching out on a case to go on a date with Sarah, and Sherlock strikes out at the mantelpiece in frustration letting off a shower of sparks. Both of them stare for a moment, surprised, at Sherlock’s hands before blinking and continuing with their argument. 

All in all, it doesn’t seem like a big deal. That is why John is surprised when, a few months into living with Sherlock, he arrives home to find smoke billowing down the staircase and the unmistakable crack of gunshots. John races up the stairs, three at a time, dropping the shopping. The atmosphere in the flat is choking, smoke stinging his eyes. 

“Sherlock?” he calls, panicking. There is a noise and John turns to see Sherlock glaring at him. He looks positively demonic– his head and shoulders are surrounded by what looks like a fireball, a raging orange inferno putting out a stream of choking black smoke into the air. 

“What the hell?”

“Bored!” says Sherlock and raises the gun (John’s gun, he notices) and fires it into the wall.

John immediately forgets about the fire in the tide of anger that floods through him. “Right,” he snaps, stepping forward. Sherlock’s eyes widen as he gets closer and he jumps backwards out of John’s reach.

“Don’t come any closer!” he says.

“Put my gun down.” John grits out, and to his surprise, Sherlock does, tossing with a lack of care that makes John wince onto the coffee table. John bends down to snatch it up, and then immediately drops it again, swearing. It is scalding hot.

“Christ,” John says, cradling his palm.

“What did you _expect_?” Sherlock half shouts at him, flames roaring around his ears. John glares at him and goes to the sink to run his hands under the water. 

Sherlock lets out a snarl and moves to the sofa, flopping down on it, pouting. The flames have subsided a little, reduced to a low smoulder. John sighs, counts to ten, then moves his hand out from under the tap, wiping it carefully on a cloth. He picks the gun up with the cloth, removing the ammunition and putting it carefully back in a drawer. When he looks back at Sherlock the flames are gone and the smoke is slowly dissipating. Sherlock is staring furiously at the ceiling.

“What was that about?” John asks. 

“I told you,” Sherlock snaps. “Bored.”

There’s something, John thinks, about the way Sherlock deliberately isn’t looking at him. It reminds him of the first night in the restaurant – the only other time he’s seen Sherlock combust. He sighs and decides yet again to leave discussion of the whole ‘your head was on fire’ thing for another time.

“So, you decided to take a shot at the wall, did you?” John says. “Not really on.” 

John thinks Sherlock looks a little relieved for a moment, but the expression is gone before he can be sure. 

“The wall had it coming.” Sherlock sneers.

“What about the Russian case?” John asks. He’s learned that getting Sherlock to talk about crime is usually the one sure fire way to sweeten his mood.

“Belarus. Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time.” Sherlock says dismissively. 

Right. No go there then. “I’m starving. Anything in?”   
As it turns out what is in is a human head, which apparently Sherlock sees nothing wrong with. He throws quite the strop about John’s reaction to it, and then moves on to complain John’s blog. 

John has to admit he is a little hurt by that. He’d got the impression somewhere along the way that his admiration meant something to the Sherlock. If John was completely honest he might have spent his morning break daydreaming about Sherlock’s reaction to the blog post. About the faint pleased look that might spread across Sherlock’s face when he realised John had written about him, the same look that appeared whenever John complimented him or asked him about his methods. Apparently not.

“…Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world.” Sherlock finishes his tirade with a flounce of his dressing gown, turning away from John. John looks down on him with gritted teeth for a moment, and thinks: _That’s it. I was trying to help but you’ve worn away at my last nerve._ He grabs his jacket and heads for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Out,” he replies grimly. _To hell with all of this._

 

John goes to Sarah’s where he spends the night on the sofa. Next morning she switches on the TV only for John to see the blast strewn remains of Baker Street.

“Christ,” he says to himself in horror.”He’s actually done it.”

As it happened the explosion wasn’t anything to do with Sherlock or what John has privately started to refer to as his ‘smoking habit’. Credit goes instead to criminal mastermind apparently obsessed with kitting people out in dynamite and setting Sherlock puzzles. The final person to be strapped into a bomb vest turns out to be John which, all things considered, John ought to have expected.

 

John’s footsteps echo as he approaches the poolside. Sherlock is standing at the back of the room, a sheath of emerald colour flame surrounding him like a wall. He turns and the flame gutters as Sherlock’s eyes meet John’s, his mouth falling open.

“Evening. This is a turn up, isn’t it?”

John watches as Sherlock blinks as if struggling to understand what’s happening. “John, what….”

“Bet you never saw this coming,” Moriarty’s voice lilts in John’s ears, and gritting his teeth John repeats him. “ _Take off the jacket_.”

John obeys slowly, Sherlock watching him. As he catches sight of the bomb vest a vein of pure scarlet flickers up from Sherlock’s feet passing through the green wall of fire and disappearing. 

“What would you like me to make him say next? Gottle of geer. Gottle of geer. Gottle of…”

“Stop that,” Sherlock says, the wall of flame rippling again.

“Nice touch this the pool where little Carl died,” Moriarty says in John’s ear and John dutifully repeats it. “I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart.”

Sherlock’s eyes travel to John’s chest where the red point of light has appeared. The flames around him hiss quietly.

“Of course,” The voice is no longer coming from the ear piece. John turns to see Moriarty slinking out of the shadows. “That would be rather a dull way for the little puppy dog to go. I’m sure you and I could think of something _much_ better.”

Sherlock stares at the man, who laughs. 

“Don’t you remember me? Jim from the hospital. I gave you my number. I thought you might call.” Moriarty’s head tilts. “Oh, but you are lovely like this Sherlock. Really quite… what is the word… _incandescent_. Is that all for me? Or is it Johnny here who’s getting you all hot and bothered?”

John blinks, unable to parse the meaning of that sentence. 

“I’ve given you a glimpse, just a tiny glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world, Sherlock.”

Moriarty’s voice drones on, but John is no longer listening. He’s looking for a way out of this, and there obviously isn’t one for him, what with the dynamite and snipers trained on him, but maybe there is for Sherlock if John plays his cards right. John takes one deep breath, waiting for a moment when Moriarty seems distracted and then throws himself sideways into the man, wrapping his arms around his face and chest.

“Sherlock, run!”

The fire around Sherlock grows into a long column, rushing upwards, the light making his pale face look ghastly. He doesn’t move.

“I’m afraid you’ve rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson.” Moriarty says and John’s heart thuds. A red dot has appeared on Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock’s eyes flicker, and John stands down, stepping back from Moriarty. Moriarty curls a hand around his upper arm, not allowing him to move far away.

“Do you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock curls his lip in what John is sure is feigned boredom. “Let me guess. I get killed?”

Moriarty’s hand tightens on John’s arm. “Kill you, Sherlock? Oh no. Not yet anyway. I’ll burn you. I’ll burn the _heart_ out of you.”

Sherlock’s face shivers through the flames. “I’ve been reliably informed I don’t have one.”

A childlike grin spreads across Moriarty’s face. “Let’s see, shall we?” he says. He yanks John back and then shoves him hard towards Sherlock. There is a moment where John’s eyes meet Sherlock’s and he sees a look of utter shock in them. Then the flames are rushing in front of him, catching hold of the fabric of his coat, and hair. 

The pain starts low like the pricking of a thousand needles, and until feels as though every inch of his skin is being ripped open. He hears someone screaming and realises it is himself – jaw open so wide he feels it might crack open. 

The flames rush upward around him and John feels a burst of terror, a twisting horror deep in his chest. _No, no, no, not John, please not John._ Just when John thinks he can’t bear anymore he sees a dark shape rushing towards him and he is falling backwards into the dark.


	2. Chapter 2

John wakes to the bleeping of a heart monitor. He feels vaguely as if he ought to be hurting, but if he is then the pain has gone to some quiet corner of his brain and is sitting quietly and not making a fuss. _Morphine_ , he concludes, and opens his eyes. He’s in a small white walled room, clearly in a hospital, and attached to drip. In the corner is a chair and a man with a tumble of dark hair, bent over his own hands. Sherlock has a small yellow ball of fire trapped between his palms and is watching it burn.

“Sherlock?”

The man’s head jerks up. “John.” His voice sounds hoarse, hopeful. He gets to his feet and moves towards John. A moment’s hesitation and he places a hand on John’s. John feels a brush of coat - it is distinctly damp.

“You pushed me into the swimming pool,” John realises. 

Sherlock blinks a few times. “Yes.”

“You should change your clothes. You’ll catch your death.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not important.” 

There is a pause.

“How bad is it?” John asks. 

Sherlock looks at him for a moment, his lips tightening. He walks to the foot of John’s bed, and rummages around a little in the trolley that is parked there. He comes back with a mirror. 

“I don’t know if-“ John begins, suddenly unsure if he can face what surely must be the ruin of his face without a little more preparation, but it is too late. Sherlock has already turned the mirror on him. He – doesn’t actually look different. He leans forward touching his cheek, which he clearly remembers being on fire – no burn. No marks at all. Sherlock tilts the mirror and John a hefty bandage on his chest – prodding them slightly he can see a savage burn spreading out from his breast bone across his chest. Apparently it is the only sign of the fire that had nearly consumed him.

“They’re putting you on antibiotics to prevent infection.” Sherlock says shortly. “You may require a skin graft.”

“Thank god,” John says. 

Sherlock twitches slightly at that. “Thank god?” he says. “Does it escape your attention that you have a third degree burn on your chest?”

“Yeah, only - I thought it would be much worse,” John says. “To be honest, back there – I thought I was a goner.”

Sherlock turns away from him, setting the mirror back in place.

“I guess you saved me,” John says. “Thank you.”

Sherlock gives him a dark look. “I’d ask you to consider the fact that I am the one who was responsible for your being on fire in the first place.”

John considers, as requested.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“If I’d-“

“Moriarty pushed me,” John says. “It wasn’t. Your. Fault.” 

Sherlock’s jaw tightens.

“What was the point of all of that anyway?” John asks. “What was Moriarty trying to prove?”

Sherlock shrugs. “A test,” he says. “No doubt the first of many.”

John thinks about that, and about what Moriarty has said. _I’ll burn the heart out of you._

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?” 

“When I was – when I knocked into you. I felt something. Not just the fire I – heard a voice in my head. Er, it sounded like you.”

Sherlock goes very still.

“That, um, that fire thing, is it-“ John pauses, not entirely sure how to proceed.

Sherlock tilts his head back for a moment, looking at the ceiling. For a long moment he is silent and John thinks he is going to ignore the question. Then he lets out a long breath, and looks back at John.

“Mycroft always said it was a mark of intellectual immaturity. The inability to control the base emotional instincts manifests physically. _And the sparks fly upward_. ” 

Sherlock pronounces the word _emotional_ as if he were referring to something disgusting he'd found at the back of their fridge.

“No offense to your brother but that sounds like a load of old balls.” 

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches reluctantly.

“Perhaps you would prefer my mother’s view. She says I have too much heart.”

“Yeah?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Different ways to say the same thing.”

John isn’t so sure about that, but lets it pass.

“So,” he says instead. “When someone touches the flames….”

“They get burnt,” Sherlock says. “Obviously.”

“And they get a backdraft of whatever it is you’re feeling.” John says. 

Well, that explained why Sherlock was so cagey about the whole issue. Awkward, for such an incredibly proud man to have his emotions broadcast like that, against his will. He looks at Sherlock, who is studiously looking down at John’s quilt.

“Did you – were you always like this?”

“From birth? No. The first time it happened I was eight years old. Red… the family pet was unwell. He had to be put down. I woke up in the middle of the next night on fire.”

“That must have been terrifying.”

Sherlock shrugs. “More so for everyone else. I knew the flames weren’t hurting me but my family didn’t, not at first. Mycroft still has burns on his hands from trying to put me out.”

John recalls this meeting with Mycroft in the warehouse, gloved hands resting on the umbrella.

“Jesus. And – and it really doesn’t hurt you at all?”

“It doesn’t,” says Sherlock. “It appears to burn harmlessly unless it encounters another person. I’ve experimented of course, but it appears to be beyond the reach of science. Or any kind of logic.” The words are very bitter. 

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” John says reassuringly. 

Sherlock gives him a closed off look, and then shrugs, looking away. John feels a sudden wave of pity for his friend, who had learned to be so afraid of what his own feelings.

“Um, by the way,” he says. “I should probably say. About what I heard, when I was burning.”

Sherlock’s face is completely expressionless. “Yes?”

“I’d be the same way if – if something happened to you. You know? I wouldn’t know what to do either.”

There’s a long pause in which Sherlock stares at him as if John were on the witness stand and Sherlock were determined to prove he was perjuring himself. Then he looks away and his shoulders visibly relax. “I know,” he says.

Sherlock is unusually quiet in the weeks after John comes back from hospital – at first, John thinks it’s maybe just awkwardness at having his combustion issue exposed, or perhaps residual guilt for John’s injuries. He finds Sherlock looking at him often when he thinks John isn’t aware of it, that familiar closed off look on his face. Sherlock starts ducking into his room at odd times, sometimes stopping mid-sentence and just walking off. John doesn’t know what to make of it.

Then one day they are in the kitchen and John brushes past Sherlock en route to the kettle. There is a soft rushing sound, and when John looks back, flames are erupting across Sherlock’s arm, on the exact spot where John had touched it. Before John can say a word Sherlock puts down the beaker he is holding, picks up his coat and walks straight out of the flat.

Neither of them mention the incident when Sherlock returns, several hours later but John can’t help dwelling in it and on the white scared look on Sherlock’s face when he saw the flames.

A couple of days later it happens again. They are sharing a Chinese take-away, and Sherlock is delivering a set of particularly amusing deductions about the delivery boy, and his recent unfortunate escapade with a garden hose. John leans back in his chair, laughing helplessly and all of a sudden there are flames blooming over Sherlock’s chest, a soft flickering rose colour edged with gold. John stops laughing, suddenly feeling rather short of breath. Sherlock looks away, dropping the chopsticks back into the bag and moves to stand up.

“No don’t-“ John says. “It’s – pretty.”

Clearly pretty was the wrong word to use, since Sherlock gives John a burningly angry look and stalks away into his room. The door rattles on its hinges as Sherlock yanks it closed.

 _Damn_ , John thinks.

 

John thinks about what happened, thinks about it all night, replaying the moment when the flames had started, the brief vulnerable expression on Sherlock’s pale face. _He_ is making Sherlock flame up, making him feel – something. He’s sure of it. Practically speaking, it could be anything, of course. Annoyance, amusement, guilt. Nausea. But remembering the soft quality of the light, the flush it cast over Sherlock’s face, John is certain it isn’t any of those things. Maybe he’s being an arrogant bastard, but he thinks- he thinks Sherlock likes him. That maybe he’s attracted to him and … Bloody hell. What does he do with that? 

As a rule John isn’t attracted to men. And Sherlock is his friend. Which means he should probably be troubled by the idea, and concerned about hurting his flatmate’s feelings. Instead John feels a flood of warmth to the belly at the idea, and with it, a prickle of arousal. Maybe next time they are in the kitchen he won’t just brush past Sherlock, he’ll move closer. Put a hand of his waist maybe, pull him into John’s body. Touch the long graceful curve of Sherlock’s neck, place a hand under his jaw. Tilt his head back and then…

…probably get third degree burns again. Right. John groans to himself rolling over onto his front and burying his face into his pillow. This is going to take some pretty serious figuring out.

 

John does think about it a great deal over the next few days (during which Sherlock, naturally, avoids both coming within touching distance of John or entering into anything like a conversation) and is starting to think he might have come to a conclusion when a distraction arrives in the form of a young woman named Helen Stoner. Helen seeks their help on account of her sister Julia, who recently died in mysterious circumstances, and the troubling news that she is developing symptoms similar to the ones Julia experienced before her death.

John discovers puncture wounds, resembling a snake bite on the woman’s ankle, as well as a series of unexplained speckles on her body. Sherlock is, for some reason, convinced that the death was caused by something in the bedroom and declares that the only course of action will be for him to spend the night in it. Well, John isn’t letting Sherlock do something like that on his own, not even if Sherlock is still avoiding making eye contact with him and tensing every time John walks into the room.

Julia Stoner’s bedroom is small, an old fashioned four poster bed taking up the bulk of it. Sherlock sits on the bed, back against the headboard, and folds his hands and closed his eyes in his typical ‘I’m thinking deep thoughts don’t bother me’ pose. John isn’t fooled. 

“Budge up,” John drops onto the bed opposite Sherlock, the springs creaking. He grabs a pillow and positions himself against the backboard at the foot of the bed.

Sherlock’s fly open in alarm and he moves his feet a little reflexively out of John’s way.

“So,” says John. “What do we do now then?”

“Nothing,” says Sherlock. “We wait.” 

“Ah,” says John. “Might be a good opportunity to talk, then.”

“Talk?” Sherlock sounds like he’s never heard such a thing suggested before.

Deliberately John shifts his feet and moves to brush his socked foot against Sherlock’s leg. He moves the foot back out of the way pretty sharpish and sure enough a plume of flame leaps up from the spot he touched. Sherlock sits as motionless as a statue, staring at John.

“I’ve got a theory,” John says. 

“Oh yes?” Sherlock says, very coldly.

“You’ll like it,” John says. “It starts out with Mycroft being wrong.”

“That is always a benefit,” says Sherlock but his tone doesn’t grow any warmer. He’s staring at John as if he’s a specimen under a slide. It’s a little disconcerting.

“That,” John says, gesturing at Sherlock’s burning thigh. “Mycroft reckoned it was because you didn’t control your feelings enough, right?”

Sherlock's lip draws back in the beginning of a sneer. “That is correct.”

“And I expect you tried to, didn’t you? He probably taught you things, exercises, all that mind palace stuff…”

“In the early years we experimented somewhat.”

“Did any of it work?”

“Some of it,” Sherlock glances away. ““Emotions are largely - relational in nature. It takes two flints to spark a flame. For someone with my condition, caring is not an advantage.”

“So you avoided getting close to anyone, and – that worked?”

“It _did_ ,” Sherlock says, and his eyes meet John’s with a flash of something dark. 

John takes a breath. “Like I said, I think Mycroft got it wrong. I don’t think it happens because you aren’t controlled enough. Actually I think it might be the control that’s the problem.”

That gets Sherlock’s attention. “Oh?”

“Think about it, Sherlock. You bottle things up all the time, barely let yourself show anything. It’s, like, physics – that energy has to go somewhere.”

Sherlock stares at him. “I do wonder about you scientific education, John. For a qualified doctor you have some very peculiar ideas.”

“Have you ever tried it?” asks John. “Trying not to control your emotions – have you ever tried just showing people how you feel?”

Sherlock looks at him for a long moment, and John wonders if he is simply going to ignore the question. But when he speaks his voice is lower and a little rougher than usual.

“How exactly would you suggest I do that?”

“Well,” says John. “You could try just – talking.”

“Talking.”

“Yeah,” says John. “I know it’s not easy –I’m not good at it either exactly but. I think it’s worth a try. We could do it now. It’ll be an experiment.”

“I don’t think…”

“I’ll go first,” John says. 

Sherlock hesitates for a long moment, and John thinks he can see fear momentarily warring with curiousity in Sherlock’s eyes.

“All right,” he says at last.

“OK,” John clears his throat. “Well. What I want to say is – uh. I’ve never known anyone like you. You’re insane and domineering and –frankly bursting in the flames is probably the least weird thing about you.”

“I see,” Sherlock looks away.

“And I love it.” John says. “I love all of it. You’re the best friend I ever had – you’ve turned my life around completely. I’ve never felt so alive as I do when I’m with you.”

Sherlock looks back at him, lips parting slightly. John watches as the flames that have been dimming into non existence on Sherlock’s thigh, suddenly flicker back to life dancing up Sherlock’s body to light on his chest.

Now for the hard part. John surreptitiously wipes his palm, which seems to be very sweaty all of a sudden, against his trousers.

“And - I’m not gay,” he says. “But, uh. I think you could be an exception, in that respect. If you wanted to be, I mean. If you don’t, that’s fine too.”

Sherlock lets out a breath, and the flames pick up to a roar, covering Sherlock’s body with a shifting golden veil of light and heat. 

“Your turn,” John says.

Sherlock blinks rapidly for several seconds. “John - I can’t-“

“Just say what you’re thinking.”

Sherlock closes his eyes briefly and then opens them, taking a deep breath.

“I’m-“ Sherlock says. “I – like you, I find the nature of our friendship – different from what I’ve experienced in the past. Your company is – congenial.”

Trust Sherlock, John thinks, to respond to what was basically a declaration of love with language that sounds like something from an 18th century etiquette guide. The flames, John notices, have diminished just a little bit, shrinking back from Sherlock’s face. He wonders if Sherlock has noticed.

“Go on.”

“I also have felt that your presence,” Sherlock stops to frown as if searching for the right words. “Enhances my appreciation of being alive.”

“Good,” John says, and smiles broadly at him.

Sherlock begins to smile tentatively back. “What you did – what you offered to do at the pool, especially. That was – good.” 

The flames are definitely retreating, John thinks, shrinking back over Sherlock’s shoulders, flickering lower and lower.

“Anything else?”

“Since then – since the pool – and seeing you hurt…” 

One flame leaps up, a sickly yellow black, over Sherlock’s chest, but immediately disappears again.

“I’ve been conscious of… something. There’s a feeling..” Sherlock lifts a hand and places it over his breastbone – John’s breath catches – over his heart. The flames on his body rush inward, caught around that one point, Sherlock’s hand over Sherlock’s heart.

“I think of you constantly,” Sherlock says. “I find myself - wanting, constantly. But I can’t be entirely sure what it is I want.”

“We can figure that out,” John says, quickly. “Together.”

Sherlock's lip curls bitterly. “If you’re referring to sex,” he says. “I doubt we can.”

John’s smile fades a little . “You don’t- want that?”

“It can’t have escaped your notice that recently I burst into flames every time you touch me. I won’t risk burning you again.”

“Sherlock,” says John, and points to his chest where the last flames flicker and die into nothing. Sherlock glances down at the point where the fire had been, blinking.

“You see?” says John. “You made it go out. You can do this.”

“ That hardly proves…”

“ I think it does. “ John says. “Listen – we don’t have to rush into anything. We can take it slow, as slow as you need so that you can feel you’re in control. As long as you want to. Sherlock, if you don’t want to we can-“

“Yes,” says Sherlock. “No, I mean – I want to.”

John feels a smile spread over his face. “Great.”

John gets up onto his knees and moves up the bed so that he’s beside Sherlock, face level with his.

“John, be-“

“Careful, I know,” John says, and settles himself making sure there is a good few inches of space between him and Sherlock. “I won’t touch you. But – I thought perhaps…”

“What?”

“It might be all right, at first – if you touched me. You’d be in control and wouldn’t be surprised by anything I did.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment. 

“If you want to.”

“I do,” Sherlock says, and very slowly raises a hand, watching it through narrowed eyes as he places if gently against John’s cheek. They both wait, breath caught. No flames. Sherlock’s thumb gently brushes the line of John’s jaw and then he leans forward, resting his forehead against John’s. John can feel his breath brushing warm over his own lips. It takes all John’s self control not to tilt his head and bring them closer.

“I’d like to kiss you,” Sherlock says, after a moment. “But I don’t think I can be sure...”

“It’s OK.” John says. “Later. We’ll take it step by step.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock says, brushing his cheek against John’s and taking in a deep breath. “You smell of soap.”

“Do I?” John says.

All of a sudden Sherlock’s body tenses and John feels a moment of fear that something has gone wrong. But when Sherlock raises his head there are no signs of flames – instead his eyes are wide with realisation.

“Soap, John! Oh, why didn’t I think…? We need to check the contents of Helen Stoner’s bathroom. Immediately!”

And Sherlock is on his feet right away leaping towards the door. John watches him, feeling sheer affection bloom in his chest. 

Sherlock hesitates at the door, looking back at him.

“Coming?”

John grins at him, getting to his feet. “Right behind you.” 

 

_One Year Later_

 

On the morning of their first anniversary John wakes to the sound of Sherlock’s violin. He smiles for a moment, luxuriating in the pleasant ache of his body, the sensation of being cocooned in sheets that still smell of Sherlock. This is all still new – it took almost ten months for Sherlock to feel confident enough in his own control (or as John would say, lack thereof) to let John take him to bed. Worth the wait though, as John said afterwards as they lay sweaty and panting in a mercifully un-scorched mess of sheets. Definitely worth the wait.

“I know you’re awake,” Sherlock calls through the door. “I can hear you thinking.”

“Liar,” John calls back cheerfully, but he gets up and starts to pull on his clothes.

Sherlock opens the door and sticks his head around it. “Hurry up,” he says. “There’s something I want to show you.”

John entertains himself while getting dressed by speculating on what Sherlock might be referring to, and hoping fervently that it has nothing to do with that experiment Sherlock was running featuring human mucus and a stolen soap dispenser. When he finally gets out, Sherlock is standing by the window, holding his violin and bow in the attitude of a concert violinist waiting to be called to the stage.

“What is it?”

Sherlock merely points at John’s chair with the bow and John resigning himself to being ordered about, goes to sit down.

“I’ve composed something,” Sherlock says. “For the occasion.”

“The occasion?” John says, and Sherlock glares at him. “Oh, right. Brilliant. I wasn’t sure if we were, er, celebrating. But I’m glad we are. I did get you something actually – nothing special just cufflinks but…”

“John,” Sherlock rebukes, and John falls silent. Sherlock licks his lips and launches into what is clearly a pre-prepared speech. 

“Anniversaries are an occasion on which to express and reaffirm emotional bonds,” Sherlock says. “I read a book about it.”

“Right,” says John, suppressing a smile. “’Course.”

Sherlock had actually read rather a lot of books on emotional intelligence during his getting-to-grips with-the-smoking-habit period. John had privately found it rather amusing to see Sherlock with an expression of uttermost seriousness, poring over pop psychology titles such as ‘Emotional Intelligence- How to Channel Your Inner Goddess’. Amusing, and rather endearing. He knows better than to express the sentiment, however.

“This piece,” Sherlock declares. “Is intended to do both.” He gives John a serious look. “I hope you’ll give it proper attention.”

John obediently leans forward, waiting. Sherlock clears his throat, straightens his back and begins to play.

As the first notes start flames leap up from Sherlock’s chest, small flickering violet points of light. John catches his breath – he hasn’t seen Sherlock catch fire for a while, and it usually doesn’t put him in a good mood when he does – but this to his surprise when he looks up Sherlock is watching his face and smiling.

The song is beautiful, a sweet, lilting tune that builds slowly towards a crescendo. As it reaches the high point, the flames also leap upward towards Sherlock’s throat, purple flames suddenly shot with crimson and gold. The tune changes again to something softer and more playful, the flames dimming to a clear yellowish green, dancing up and down Sherlock’s arms, before the tune swells again and slows deepening the fire to an amber ball, hovering around Sherlock’s chest and flickering out as Sherlock finishes, the notes dying into silence.

“Well?” Sherlock asks, after a moment. John clears his throat, attempting to find his voice again.

“Sherlock,” he says. “The music… it was directing the fire. _You_ were directing the fire. Weren’t you?”

Sherlock smiles, a big genuine Sherlock smile, eyes crinkling. 

“Did you like it?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” says John. “It was beautiful.”

“I’ve been practising for months. The music acts as an emotional channel. But in time I’m confident I’ll be able to do control the fire even without the music to help me.”

“That’s incredible,” says John. “That really is. Bloody unbelievable.”

“Imagine the advantages in crime solving,” Sherlock says. 

John raises a finger “No setting fire to criminals,” he says. “It’s unethical.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Well, I wasn’t planning to do _that_. But fire can be an excellent pressure point. There's nothing like it for exposing a person's priorities.”

“That's true,” John says, remembering the swimming pool and Sherlock's horrified face. "Well," he says, getting to his feet. “This definitely put my cufflinks to shame.”

Sherlock’s eyes soften a little as John gets closer. “I don’t care about that.”

“I know,” says John, and takes the violin from his hands carefully setting it down on the desk. “Do you know what I’m going to do now, Sherlock?”

Sherlock must have some idea, because he lowers his voice an octave, seductively. “What are you going to do, John?”

“I’m going to kiss you.” John says. “And I’m going to keep on kissing you until you beg me for mercy. And then, I’m going to kiss you some more.”

Sherlock’s eyelashes flicker. “Oh really?”

“Yeah really,” says John. “And you know why?”

“Why?”

John places his hands on Sherlock’s hips, and pulls him close into his body.

“Because I can,” he says. 

And he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - And Moriarty slips over in the shower and bangs his head so Reichenbach never happens and they all live happily ever after.
> 
> Thanks for reading, all!

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: _Sherlock spontaneously combusts on a regular basis. It’s no big deal._  
>  Title comes from the Bible (Job 5:7) “For man is born for trouble, as sparks fly upward.” It seemed like quite a Sherlockian sentiment.


End file.
